Page 108 of A Breath of Life
“Just do as you’re told,” the Bishop said. “You have enough problems without antagonizing him.”
“You just don’t want to be painted in brain matter,” I said without taking my eyes off the prick threatening me.
“Not particularly, and blood is a bitch to get out of the upholstery.”
“Hands. In. Front.” The gunman’s spit rained over my face.
Biting back another comment, I presented my hands.
The Bishop wound a length of thin wire around them so tightly that it cut into the still-healing flesh of my wrists. I didn’t fight. I didn’t complain. Despite the gun aimed at my head, I could have taken the pair in the backseat. The new guy with his pocked skin and harsh features wasn’t intimidating. I pegged him to be in his late fifties. His thinning salt-and-pepper hair was styled in a dated fashion that matched his corny outfit. Another blast from the past. What was up with these guys? He had no muscle to speak of. Unarmed, I could have broken him in half with one hand.
The Bishop didn’t bind my ankles, but he frisked me, emptying my pockets and confiscating everything from my wallet to my keys to a handful of stray change. A cop or someone with military training would have found the knife strapped to my calf, but the Bishop wasn’t as thorough, and I thanked fucking god I’d had the sense to bring it.
Scenarios played out inside my head. Knocking the gunman’s arm, shouldering him into the door, and smashing his nose with my forehead. In the process, I would get my hands on the knife. The Bishop wouldn’t see it coming. A slash across the jugular. Fuck the blood in the upholstery. Problem solved.
The driver, however, was a wild card. Even if I miraculously avoided being shot by the new guy, a thick partition separated the front and back seats. It was likely bulletproof. The driver could easily call for backup, draw his own weapon, or take off for wherever we were bound. I doubted the locks could be disengaged from the back.
Too many variables.
I resisted the temptation to unleash the boiling fury in my veins, figuring I’d done enough stupid things for one day. My impulsive actions would get Nana or Tallus killed at this rate if they hadn’t already.
Before the driver pulled away, he met eyes with the gunman in the rearview mirror. The gunman gave the Bishop a signal of some kind, and the next thing I knew, a dark-colored cloth bag was wrenched over my head and secured so tightly around my neck that it made breathing difficult. The barrel of the gun came to rest disconcertingly against my ribs, aimed so the bullet would pierce my heart if I did anything my captors didn’t like.
“Don’t test me,” the gunman hissed in my ear.
I sat perfectly still as the car moved into traffic.
With my vision compromised, I listened and tried to gauge our direction while taking note of the passage of time. The disorientation of several turns and stops confused things until I didn’t have a fucking clue which way we were going.
I thought of Tallus in the bathroom stall, oblivious to my failed attempt at getting answers. I heard his protests anew and regretted arguing with him. A sitting duck, he’d called himself. Had they found him? Taken him? If he got hurt—killed—it would be my fault. I should have lied better from the beginning and played dumb when he asked questions. I should never have told him a thing.
Why did Tallus have to be so willful and restive? But that was half the reason I loved him. It was his tenacity and steadfast refusal to back down from my miserable attitude that had stolen my heart long before I understood it to be lost.
For a brief moment, my thoughts turned to Nana, but I felt instantly sick and pushed them away. I couldn’t go there. Not now. Not yet. Not ever.
The car came to an abrupt stop, and the engine cut out. We had driven for less than fifteen minutes. I was right. I had to be. Considering downtown traffic at this time of day, we couldn’t have gone far. We were still in Old Toronto.
I listened astutely as the driver got out and opened the passenger door on the Bishop’s side. The man with the gun nudged me. “Out.”
Blindly shuffling over, I startled when a strong grip circled my upper arm and yanked me to my feet. Whoever it was—the driver or the Bishop—helped me from the vehicle before shoving me in a direction I couldn’t predict, demanding I walk. I stumbled with the force and went down on my knee, throwing my bound hands out to catch my fall before I face-planted.
“Idiot,” one of them said.
A pair of hands, one on either side, tugged me to stand. One of them let go, and the other urged me to walk, guiding me as his fingers dug into my arm.
I stepped cautiously, all too aware of the uneven ground, the pits and divots and cracks in the concrete under my shoes. I envisioned a path of cobblestone, aged and crumbling.
“Step,” the man holding me said.
Stairs? I proceeded to climb, only to trip again when I discovered it was merely a platform and there was no second stair. It contradicted my memory. Was I somewhere else? Was my recall skewed from head trauma?
A door creaked. It sounded heavy.
Was the door made of carved wood? Did beige brick flank its sides? Was the hallway beyond carpeted? Concrete? Musty?
I was guided into a building. The cooler temperature brushed my exposed skin. I inhaled. It was not musty, but I picked out the lingeringhints of sweet smoke I’d smelled before. Not incense like I’d originally thought.
An image of Boone floated to the front of my mind. Working in his shop. A cigar dangling from between his teeth as he concentrated.
